Living Crazy

I am not too sure on how to start this whole blogging thing off but here goes nothing. Scrolling through other people’s entries I still couldn’t come to a conclusion on how to start mine. I am 23 years old, and just graduated from college in May. I am struggling with each and every step I take right now, toward any direction I go. But with confidence I know, it’s going up. For the longest time, I couldn’t let myself be human, I was “super” human, every time I cried I hated myself, every time I had any emotion I thought I was the worse person on the earth.  I am starting to realize that is completely wrong.  I was diagnosed with Bipolar Type 1 when I was 16 years old, along the way, through the years, whichever way you want to put it, I developed Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and just recently found out I was full blown ADHD.. I know I was completely over medicated until I turned 18. When that day came, I felt like I had control back in my life.  I could start my story off from the day I tapered myself off of2500 mgs of Depakote that some idiot of a doctor put me on, because my parents said I was doing this or that. But I am going to start from a few days after I got realized from inpatient care because I overdosed.

+1/11

 A week and a few days later, after I was discharged from the hospital (12/27), I thought it was time to start writing. I could look back on the issues/problems/concerns I had and see how I got through them. On December 22, 2011 I overdosed on Trazadone and a measly 1mg of Xanax,  at that time I didn’t know if I was  trying to kill myself or just simply calm down from a physical altercation I had with my sister in front of all her friends. That whole fight was a blur, we just kept punching, pulling hair, kicking and no one would give up. I am the smallest one in the family, and yes that usually means I get the shit beat out of me, but as sad as it is to say, I was so deranged I was out for blood. My anger was not solely directed at her, but it did all come out at her. When I look back at those few minutes, how embarrassing? I am 23 years old; I had 18 or 19 year old girls on top of me, standing between my sister and I, holding me up against the wall. They finally got my sister and I separated, she was in the backyard, while I was in the front, with one of her friends. That friend left to go check on my sister. The impulsive side of me took over and, the second I had the chance to, I went in my room and just kept pouring those white pills down my throat, I wanted to breathe, but I couldn’t; so the more and more I took. I remember I started feeling very drowsy and violently sick, and that’s when I freaked out. I texted, my sisters friend; to come into my room, and at that point I knew I was in trouble. I kept blacking in and out. The girls kept on trying to get me up but I was dead weight- no pun intended. All I really remember hearing at that time is everyone arguing whether or not; the girls should put me in the car n drive me to the ER or wait for an ambulance. They dragged me into the living room, I saw my sisters face, with tears streaming down. Emi never cries, never ever, but now she was. She called the ambulance, and at the point, I couldn’t even look at her. A part of me was disgusted that the fight got this out of control, another part of me did not want to look to see the pain in her eyes. It was the tip of the iceberg that pushed me over the edge, to want to hurt myself this badly. The paramedics did the usual “once over” on me, the question was asked, “Was I trying to hurt myself?” my response was “I think so.” Those three words would forever change my life.

 Then, the paramedics asked if I wanted my sister to come with me into the ambulance, I couldn’t say yes, so the friend came.  During that ride, my eyes were blurry, my head hurt, and I just felt sick. But I kept thinking, I didn’t want my sister to think that this was her fault. So much just added up, everything had just seemed to have fallen into pieces, which could never be put back together.   I have always been the “weak link” or the “black sheep”. I simply just broke down. The sad thing was which added to my previous state of embarrassment was that I knew the two cops that came into the house; the man did security for the high school I went to, the other did security for a company I did photography for, they instantly recognized me. It didn’t help that numerous parties had been broken up at my house before either. I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t know my sister and her close girlfriends were in the lobby waiting to hear what was going to happen to me. My mom told me once she had gotten there, about twenty minutes after I had arrived, she was working late. My sister and one of her friends went back to my house; brought some food, phone chargers, amongst other things, knowing that my mother would be staying with me until I was transported to the other hospital for my inpatient stay. The look on my moms face was horrible and all I kept saying was  I’m sorry, I’m sorry,  I’m sorry. I never wanted to do this to her. I felt her pain in some way; I don’t know how to even explain it, the fear that this could happen again, the fear that one day I could lose my daughter before she loses me. The look in her heavy, mourning, eyes will be something that I will never forget. But every time I did look at her or talk, her eyes had just a little bit of glimmer in them, that look she used to give me if I fell down or broke something, that it is going to be okay, no matter what. The hospital did not have to pump my stomach with charcoal, but the CDC had recommended that the staff carefully watch me to make sure all my levels were right. I had something poking me every time I tried to move. It was two horrible nights spent in the emergency room, both nights I wasn’t really lucid, everything just blended together. After my first night there, my sister and her boyfriend both left work, and came to see me. My sister had two friends that killed themselves, at that point I felt selfish, but still I wasn’t completely coherent at the time.

 I was half awake, thirsty, woke my mom up to get me water, it was late, she had told me my old therapist came by, but I was asleep and he didn’t want to wake me, but said he would be back later on.  I woke up my second day or night (the days blurred together); well technically it was the morning to a familiar and comforting voice of my old social worker, I screamed his voice, or for some reason I think I did.  The only sense of sensibility in this whole mess of things was him. I knew he would get me over to Christ, make sure I was okay when I got there, and check up on me. He explained everything to a T.  I think he and I both knew that one day sooner than later that I would end up in the in-patient program at the hospital.

Prior to this whole incident ( a few weeks prior), he and I had come to the conclusion that I needed to see someone on a more consistent basis; I had fought him on this for years and years. But one night changed my opinion on the whole thing, my father and I had gotten into a fight, I was driving home from work, and praying to God that my car would somehow manage to run itself off the road. I got back to my moms, but I was in the midst of a full blown panic attack, I got on the kitchen floor and fell. It was late, but knowing my old therapist, I knew he would be up. I called, he got me calmed down, then he said that it was time for me to see someone else consistently and that he knew exactly who to send me too. Of course, I was petrified. This was the one man I trusted, I felt like he was just done with me and leaving me, dumping me on someone else. I didn’t have a say in the matter, ultimately I knew he was right. I made one stipulation that he would come with me to the appointment, and stay with me the entire time. He agreed, and also mentioned that he and his wife were both friends with her, that if I wanted I could talk to his wife about her as well. He made the appointment for the following day, I was nervous as all hell. And just shaking and I have to say, I had an overwhelming since of abandonment.  It is pathetic to say this about my therapist but he and I grew such a tight bond that he really became the only person I trusted when it came to realistic, important, emotional decisions.  The appointment with the new doctor went well, I liked her, she was easy going.  I cannot stand doctors that are like put your feet up, lay your hand back, close your eyes kind of bull shit.  It isn’t realistic, maybe for someone in their 40s or 50s but not for me. I needed someone with a free spirit, someone that didn’t play so close to the books.  Before he and I met, I couldn’t even tell you how many different psychiatrists, therapists, social workers, psychologists, I had gone through. He and I went through hell and back together, and I wasn’t going to give up the one person I completely trusted, and knew would always be in my corner without a fight. 

His explanation calmed my nerves down tremendously before walking into a situation in which I know would be absolutely horrendous. Later on (during my second day at S.S), the papers finally got rolling and I was soon on my way to Christ Hospital in Oak Lawn. I was familiar with this hospital because I had done two different out-patient partial programs there, one-when I was under 18, then again when I was over 18 for two separate reasons; one for cutting and the other because I decided to take myself completely off my medicine then realized how much of an idiotic mistake that was. I could go on and on about my inpatient experience, but ultimately it was five days of the same thing. The same “checks,” identical annoying people leading groups, horrendous food, and continuous cognitive behavior therapy.

 1/12 This morning was the first in the past few days I woke up with anxiety. I feel like if I take one step off my bed, my body will be gorged by ferocious animals. Its paralyzing. I am too awake to go back to sleep, but now, I just sit here with a racing heart and a mind that is ten times worse off. Or maybe I am on a boat that will capsize if I take one wrong step into the forbidden waters, where lays the forbidden and deadly sea creature. Either way, I am screwed. Yesterday, I couldn’t even go into the local mall. My anxiety has turned me into a person that I don’t even recognize, I am a stranger when I look in the mirror. Everyday, it seems like a piece of who I was is gone, and it will keep going until Im all the way gone. In five years, I wonder will I be an old ugly hag who is a recluse or a hermit? I think there the same thing basically. Someone who is deeply afraid of going out. I am not scared of self criticism, I am who I am, I was born to stand out. I am not scared of what the world has to think or say about me. I put everything out there, everything on the table. Hello, nice to meet you, I am bipolar, I have horrible anxiety, and my brain goes bong bong bong a lot of the time, otherwise known as ADHD.

Current racing thoughts- not even current but all of the time realistically

Does your brain ever slow down?  What did I so wrong to get this disease? Why do I feel so alone?

Is this rapid cycling or just massive anxiety? Why do I isolate myself when I know subconsciously i have people that care?   But should I isolate because I feel like my disease/illness is an ultimate burden for those around me?

Why cant I give anyone the benefit of the doubt? I don’t trust anyone,  I have my reasons. Answered my own question there.  Did the “guy upstairs” accidently give me too much to handle??

1/12 cont’d

During my generation I know the general consensus is that that everyone is over medicated. I came across that experience while I was in the hospital, but that can wait for immediate purposes.  I have an underlying anger for parents who think pills are the answer. The parents are too busy with their own lives to deal with their children, so the easiest way out is to sedate them.  I have friends whose parents have done this to them, but once they turn 18, the choice is theirs.  Pills do not work without cognitive therapy, I strongly believe that and  I am sure that any other doctor would agree . The doctor I saw in Inpatient, lets call him Dr. M versus the doc tor I saw on a normal basis, Dr. R worked in the same clinic outside of the hospital.  There was so much controversy  in what was prescribed, everything hit the fan.  I was on a lot of medicine, and yes there was times I did abuse it. But that’s when I wanted to escape, that’s when I was weak. I didn’t know how to handle my fears, anxiety, or the mood swings. In the hospital, Dr. M took away one medicine and added another. Generally, I felt better, but still I had trouble with my anxiety. I had always been told that anxiety is something that one can manage with the right tools.  Day by day, I make sure to take a look at all my tools in my magical tool box in my head, and try to figure out what the trigger is before I jump to taking a pill.

Give or take a few days later

Dealing with all the problems, bills, and insurance has sent me into a downward spiral.  Instead of me trying to get better, focus on myself, the only thing I have to focus on is the repercussions of me overdosing in the first place. You would think my father would take care of this stuff on his own, and let me focus on getting better, standing on two feet instead of barely on one. Everyday there is a new problem, my anxiety turns into mania which makes it terribly hard to sleep at night. I wander and pace down the halls, sixty times I counted tonight. My heart feels like it could pop out of my chest at any moment, which scares me terribly. I am stuck in my own little world. My mind is racing, but I cannot even speak a complete thought, if I did it would come out in jibberish.  I am not hopeful things will get better. My dad just makes everything worse. In my mind,  when he is telling me my insurance is ending in three years, I hear that I will be dead in three years.

                  As of March 13^th,  I have gained the confidence that I needed to realize my live is better off without him. He’s going to take my car away on Saturday, and hopefully by the time I am 26, all these health issues will be miniscule and I will not be having to see the best of the best at Northwestern to get everything in order.  

Taking care of this on my own seems completely unimaginable, makes me feel nauseous. Nothing seems to dull this pain anymore, there is no escape from this malicious man. But sadly, I got back to is it me or is him?  I have no doubt in my mind that its him and that I am a good, loving person.  But I do have a tendency to get stuck so far deep in my subconscious, I grab for anything to get out. In this place, I blame myself, I blame myself for having this illness. I don’t know how I will ever escape from these demons, my only true hope is with time and a lot of effort I get to the point of being on an equal base line, holding down a job,  and being on my own. I refuse to take blame anymore for anyone else. I am who I am, nothing will ever change that. So what if people think that I am weak because I still live with my mom? I know that I am plain and simple not ready to be on my own, financially and mentally. I am not going to sit here and say I am sorry, blah blah blah. Truly, I am not, those who know me, love me and care for me, know that everyday I push myself and I am so tired of apologizing, really I apologize  too much. Those who do think I am weak, also are the ones that don’t comprehend that of the civil war, or agree with Hitler for killing people off who weren’t Aryan.

I have a lot more to write, and I believe that one persons’ story can help another achieve something, feel like there is someone out there in this huge universe that understands them, or just give one person hope. Hope to carry on to a different goal for the day. I write because it is therapeutic but when it comes down to the whole consensus, I want whoever out there to know, I have been in your position. I have fought so hard, and keep fighting everyday